


Old Bones

by Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [30]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Legends, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Rome - Freeform, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 19:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17814050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Maglor examines some old relics in the Basilica di Santa Maria in Cosmedin.Written for Valentine's Day; posting a few days late. Totally plotless and not at all romantic - although it is set in Rome.





	Old Bones

The missing jaw always struck him. It wasn't so rare, of course; graverobbers, careless excavators, curious amateurs, spates of construction and the shifting land itself had all played a part in scattering ancient bones through the earth. Lone femurs lay waiting to be dug up by dogs. Two halves of the same snapped rib found their way to museums on different sides of the world. Fragments of carpus like yellowing pebbles hid snug in the soil and loam, yards or even miles away from the fingerbones once bound to them by ligament, muscle and sinew. But the skull of St. Valentine - if indeed it was his - overhung its wooden plinth, mottled teeth gripping the edge, as though it might leap back to life and bite through the glass. Red silk streamed from the half-mouth like blood. From the side, though, the eye sockets seemed somehow tilted, the jutting brow pulled low, as if even in death the long-ago saint grieved for the lovers he had been unable to save.  
  
Maglor lay a thoughtful finger on the reliquary and slid into the Song. There, like a whisper. Faith...pain...ambition? Strange, for a supposed saint. But the echoes of it were so far gone now, faded like runes from old stone. Hard to be sure if it was there at all.   
  
The basilica doors creaked open, and the chatter of the street poured in. The smell of garlic and oil from the trattoria crept through the air, and white-gold light gleamed on the tiled floor - and then with a clunk of wood against brass the outside world was muffled into silence once again. A group approached, nudging, gasping, eager. Maglor stepped aside as they crowded the case. A camera flashed, sharply outlining the dying roses draped across the skull, and he winced.   
  
_So much for peace and quiet._  
  
An elderly gentleman with a cane muttered angrily under his breath, shaking his head and glaring at the offender. Maglor caught his eye and smiled. The man blinked, then lifted bushy black brows and grinned slowly back, his eyes widening as though gazing on something wondrous that he had only ever half-believed in.  
  
Maglor flickered an eyelid and returned to the portico.   
  
A gaggle of teenagers had gathered around the Bocca della Verità, taking pictures on their phone and daring one another to stick their hands in the great mask's mouth. Maglor's lips quirked as he leaned against the shaded wall. The stone face was not appealing, with its blank eyes, its carven hair like a tangle of seaweed, and the diagonal crack that scarred its left eye.  
  
A girl of about fifteen with a colourful bag and curly hair saw him watching, and said in hesitant, accented English, "It is the sea god, Oceanus."  
  
" _Lo so._ "  He smiled at her. _I know. Although I call him by another name._    
  
The little group rearranged itself around him, a new respect in their eyes. "You put your hand into his mouth," ventured one of the boys, in Italian now. "And if you make a false vow, he will bite it off."   
  
Maglor raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Would you like to try?" the youth grinned, stepping aside.  
  
A graceful shake of the head. "No, I don't think so - but thank you, all the same."  
  
"It's just an old story."  
  
"I make a point of never dismissing old stories."  
  
A cloud shivered across the warm spring sun. The little group shifted, glancing at one another, and then uneasily back at him.  
  
Regret settled on him like dust. They were only having fun - and the boy was right, it was just a silly tale. The mask had covered a drain long ago, in an old temple across the way. "Excuse me."  
  
Outside the basilica, cars stuttered and choked out bitter fumes. Brakes screeched; horns blared. A small dog yapped and tugged on its lead. Across the street, sunlight skipped over the chipped white marble of the Hercules Olivarius, still standing proud, a strange mismatch of elegance and decay. Maglor closed his eyes and filtered out the sounds of the twenty-first century, slipping back to the days when wooden ships swept up the Tiber, docking here and unloading their cargo for trade. Gulls had mewled in light hot winds. It had smelled of sewage and spice and perfumed oil, and thronged with the chaos of human life.  
  
“ _And here the buzz of eager nations ran..._ ” he murmured.  
  
A pair of laughing children crashed into his legs and returned him sharply to the present. Their harried father apologised, and Maglor smiled and held up a hand, accepting, understanding.   
  
On the lawn in front of the temple, two young students lay in each others' arms, and the shadow of the basilica's belltower stretched out beside them. Daisies flecked the grass. Another group of tourists, this one led by a man in a baseball hat carrying a flag on a stick, trooped across the road to the Byzantine church - no doubt to whisper and coo over Valentine's skull.  
  
Maglor observed it all for a short while longer, then glanced at his watch. If he left now he could make the next train - back to Venice, his city on water, and then in another few days to Scotland, to sign his lease and hand in his paperwork to his new department. A fresh start - another town by the sea, another not-quite home, yet another new name.  
  
He turned his back to the river and sun, and walked on.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Maglor quotes at the end is _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ by Lord Byron.


End file.
